George Gordon Byron

I
Our life is two-fold:
Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things

Huzza
Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o'er the mast
From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark
the farewell gun is fir'd; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that ou...

Strahan,
Tonson,
Lintot of the times,   Patron and publisher of rhymes,   For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,         My Murray
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,   The unfledged MS

'O lachrymarum fons, tenero
Ducentium ortus ex animo;
Felix
in imo qui

There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both, or none
There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly gazed with such delight—-By day, that Form their joy su...

Oh
did those eyes, instead of fire,  With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,  Love, more than mortal, would be thine
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,  Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,

Remember thee
remember thee
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream     Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,       And haunt thee like a feverish dream
Remember thee

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest

Act I
IS
AE
ED

The roses of love glad the garden of life, Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad he...

To Ianthe:
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd;
Not in those visions to the heart

Of all the barbarous middle ages,
Which is most barbarous is the middle
Of man; it is--I really scarce know what;
But when we hover between fool and sage,

I
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous...

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;  Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,--  I rise, and it leaves me to weep
Then,
Morpheus